


Truth-Telling

by Telaryn



Series: The Hero and The Bad Boy [5]
Category: Leverage, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint agrees to stay the night with Quinn, but the events of Exercising Restraint (http://archiveofourown.org/works/463642) aren't as settled as either man would hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth-Telling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kastron (decidueye)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/gifts).



> Just because.

It had been a nearly perfect evening. They’d started it off with dinner at their favorite restaurant in the East Village – a literal hole in the wall Eliot had mocked them repeatedly for patronizing, but that unbeknownst to their friend made the best cheeseburgers Clint had ever enjoyed and kept Quinn’s favorite domestic beers on tap. After eating themselves sick, they’d gone to see the latest James Bond flick and nearly gotten themselves thrown out of the theater for their whispered running commentary on the credibility of the plot.

“All I’m saying is that I’ve been in that fight,” Quinn was arguing as he fumbled his key into the lock, “and no way he’s anything but plant food after that fall.”

Clint would have responded with something suitably snarky – the discussion had been spirited and fun all the way – but now that they were alone his blood was up, and his thoughts were starting to lean in a far less intellectual or professional direction. “Quinn…”

He’d half-turned, when Clint hooked a hand behind his neck and dragged him in for a kiss. Quinn made a small, surprised noise low in his throat, but he was an expert at shifting with the tides. Strong arms went around Clint’s shoulders, pulling him into a proper embrace. “Hell of a way to win an argument,” he murmured, as their lips parted.

“I wasn’t aware we were still arguing,” Clint countered, leaning in and kissing him again.

Several moments passed as they made out like the proverbial horny teenagers – Quinn’s back to the door, Clint molded to his front. Finally Quinn swore, groping blindly for the knob and wrenching the door open. The two of them stumbled across the threshold, still tangled around each other. Clint barely managed to retain enough presence of mind to reach out and toe the door shut.

“You’re going to give my neighbors something to talk about,” Quinn grumbled, stripping off Clint’s grey t-shirt and throwing it aside. Before Clint could respond in kind, he pushed him back against the door, hands already working on undoing his belt.

Clint fisted his hands in the fabric of Quinn’s shirt and pulled him in close. “Your neighbors know better than to get curious,” he countered, kissing Quinn again. He desperately wanted to rip the dress shirt open – bypass all the annoying buttons that stood between him and Quinn’s bare chest – but they’d been together long enough for him to know that Quinn wouldn’t appreciate the damage to one of his favorite pieces of clothing.

A surge of pleasure lanced through Clint’s body as Quinn finally got his jeans open. “If I’d done this out there, you’d better believe they’d be talking.” His eyes were blazing with intent as he did something with his left hand that made it impossible for the archer to continue thinking straight.

All told, it took them the better part of a very busy hour to cross Quinn’s apartment and reach the bedroom, and another two hours after that before they finally dozed off wrapped in each other’s arms. Clint had made a token effort to disentangle himself and find his clothes, but Quinn’s quiet “You _can_ stay, you know,” and the tone in his voice that said more clearly than words he expected Clint to refuse, were enough for him to set aside all his fears and a good chunk of his common sense.

“If I oversleep it’s your ass,” he murmured, relaxing into Quinn’s embrace again. _It’s been months,_ he thought, riding out the spike of guilt that rose in his gut as Quinn settled in more securely around him. Quinn had never pushed, but Clint knew his repeated refusal to stay the night was becoming an issue for them. _It’ll be fine._

Quinn kissed him gently on the shoulder. “I’ve got your back. Don’t worry.” The relief in his voice was almost more than Clint could stand; it took actual effort for him to stay relaxed, and not alert Quinn that he was already starting to second guess his decision.

_It’ll be fine._

His relationship with Quinn had long since passed the point of being a secret. His teammates knew, and as far as he could tell cautiously approved. Fury definitely knew, but as long as Clint continued his sessions with his appointed therapist he knew the Director wouldn’t say anything.

Only Natasha knew the truth – the reason his therapist hadn’t red-flagged his relationship with Quinn was because _Clint hadn’t told her._ They’d talked for hours about how he and Quinn were starting to socialize regularly, that he’d almost stopped having flashbacks when he was in the other man’s presence, and his doctor dutifully reported to Fury that in her opinion spending his off-hours time with Quinn had been healing for him.

He’d sidestepped the issue of their sexual relationship entirely, and the guilty nightmares that still plagued him. _”I don’t need a professional to tell me how fucked up this thing is…how fucked up I am,”_ had been his reaction the one and only time Natasha had dared to raise the subject. _”I’ll work through it on my own, thanks.”_

What made everything worse was that Quinn had gone above and beyond in his efforts to try and prove to Clint that things were different now. Instead of helping, however, any good he might have been able to do had been wiped out by Clint’s inability to drag the subject out into the open so they could talk it over, and his insistence on denying the fact of his nightmares in the first place.

_The dream had no clear beginning this time – the first thing he understood was that he couldn’t move. Gradually the light blinding him dimmed, and he became aware of the heavy straps crossing his chest, hips and each of his limbs, binding him to a metal topped table. His left arm was extended out from his body, secured by vise clamps at his wrist, elbow, and just below his shoulder joint._

_He was surrounded by figures in surgical gowns and masks. Clint tried to call out, tried to get their attention, but if he was making any noise at all no one reacted to it._

_Quinn had been the one to take the contract that was supposed to end here – with Clint strapped down, waiting to have his left arm surgically amputated by a madman. He would have succeeded too. There was a reason he was the best at what he did, and Clint knew how completely his rescue had beaten the odds. Natasha hadn’t even been on the same continent at the time when she’d orchestrated Tony Stark and Bruce Banner coming to his aid._

_Finally, after an eternity of trying to get anyone’s attention, a figure stepped away from the crowd and came to his side. Clint swallowed hard, recognizing Quinn’s pale eyes above the surgical mask. He wanted to beg for mercy, wanted to curse him for his part in the nightmare, but all he could do was watch helplessly as the man he’d so stupidly let into his heart picked up the bone saw._

“Clint!”

He came awake screaming, fighting his way clear of the sheets that had tangled around him while he slept. The lines between dream and reality were hopelessly blurred, and for several long, agonizing moments he had no clear idea where he was.

“Clint, dammit – look at me!” Quinn had moved as far away as he could without leaving the bed; one foot was on the floor, but the rest of him was focused on the archer. Their eyes finally met, and Clint breathed in hard against a sudden surge of panic.

“You’re safe. You’re in my bedroom.” Quinn raised a placating hand, his voice almost unnaturally calm. “It was a nightmare Clint, that’s all it was.”

 _Nightmare…_ Realization crashed in on him, burying him under its weight. He’d given in. He’d let all the good feelings of the night lull him into a false sense of security, convince him that he could stay where most of him so very much wanted to be without there being any consequences. _I’m such an idiot._

Pain bloomed in his chest as all the horror and grief and guilt he’d been working so hard to keep at bay clawed their way out of his soul and into the light. Ugly, wracking sobs filled the air around him as he covered his head with his arms – the sounds he was making barely recognizable to his ears as human, much less his own broken voice. He was dimly aware of Quinn returning to his side, of strong arms enveloping him, pulling him close, but couldn’t even muster the strength to react to the comfort Quinn was trying so desperately to give him.

“Breathe, Clint. In, out…just breathe.” The words spilled into his ears, a low, soothing litany washing through him – gradually wearing down all the damage he’d caused, until he was finally quiet and shivering in the other man’s embrace.

“You with me?” Quinn asked, after a long moment of silence. Clint nodded weakly, making what he hoped Quinn would interpret as a sound of affirmation. “You’re freezing,” he went on. “I’m going to get some covers around you, and then I’m going to crank the heat a bit.”

The words didn’t make sense to Clint, until Quinn tried to move him and he panicked. “It’s okay,” Quinn said firmly, cupping his cheek in a warm hand and forcing eye contact between them. “Your body temperature’s just dropped too low – I need to make sure you’re not going into shock.” Enough of what he was saying finally managed to penetrate Clint’s thoughts, and he stopped fighting Quinn helping him lie down.

Sleep began tugging at his fading consciousness almost immediately; the pull grew stronger as Quinn tucked more blankets in around him. _No!_ Fear lent Clint the strength to resist – he wouldn’t risk falling back into the dream. _Not until…_

He grabbed Quinn’s arm, before the other man could stand up. “I’m just going to turn the heat up,” he said, covering Clint’s hand with his own. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Sick at heart, Clint pulled him back down. “We need to talk first,” he said. “Quinn, please.” Tears blurred his vision again, and he swiped at them angrily with the back of his free hand.

Once Quinn had relented, perching on the edge of the bed, Clint struggled to sit up again. “You need to rest,” Quinn said, his expression suddenly serious. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. It’s…” He stopped, sighing heavily. “I’m not an idiot, Clint. I’ve seen more than my fair share of PTSD, and it doesn’t take a genius to put this puzzle together.”

Everything they felt for each other…everything that was starting to bind their lives together…Clint could suddenly feel it all slipping away. “I should have told you,” he said finally, forcing himself to meet Quinn’s eyes.

“You should have told _somebody_ ,” Quinn countered. “I just assumed you were hashing it out with your therapist, or I would have insisted we talk before things got this far.” He swallowed hard, and when he continued, Clint’s heart broke all over again hearing the grief in his voice. “I hurt you more than enough for one lifetime when we first met. I can’t do this if being with me puts you back in that time and place.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what had just happened was an anomaly, but Clint knew that Quinn wouldn’t believe him. _And there’s no reason he should._ “If I tell her, she’s going to suggest that I stop seeing you,” he said finally. “And she’s going to tell Fury I’ve been compromised, and _he’ll_ insist I stop seeing you.”

“Maybe they’re right.” It was his darkest fear given full, roaring life, and as Quinn said it Clint knew he’d never wanted anything less. “Maybe it’s stupid to think that we could grow anything healthy out of how we started.” He shook his head, his eyes immeasurably sad. “I can’t fix this for you, Clint. I can’t go back and change what I did, and I can’t apologize for being who I am.”

“I know that.” The sigh that escaped him next was almost a sob. “Jesus Quinn – didn’t you hear me say that the last thing I want is to give you up? That’s why I haven’t said anything to the doctor or to Fury. I need what we’ve got here.” He reached out and took Quinn’s hand in his. “I need you.”

Quinn allowed the contact, but his expression stayed serious. “You _need_ to talk to somebody about what happened…what I did.” He paused. “I’ll go with you if you think it’ll help, but Clint you’ve got to figure out for yourself if you can get past this, otherwise it’s never going to work.”

Clint tightened his grip, “Just don’t leave me.” He felt pathetic and more than a little desperate begging like that, but he had to make Quinn see what was at stake. “I haven’t been fair to you or to us. You have to at least give me a chance to fix this.”

Silence fell between them – long, agonizing moments where Clint couldn’t even begin to guess how Quinn’s thoughts were leaning. “All right,” he conceded finally. “We’ll try again, but Clint I swear if it looks like this is hurting you…” His voice trailed off meaningfully.

“I get it,” Clint said, nodding. “I promise.”


End file.
